GREG STIDHAM - BUS RIDE TO MINOT

Greg Stidham is a retired pediatric intensivist (ICU physician) currently living in Kingston, Ontario, with his wife Pam and their two foundling "canine kids." Greg's passion for medicine had yielded in retirement to his other lifelong passion, literature and creative writing.

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BUS RIDE TO MINOT
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I

   The print on the ticket blurred as he stared at it in the flickering, blue-white and buzzing fluorescent light of the station’s lobby. Minot. He’d never heard of Minot before his sister was stationed there over ten years ago. Even now, Adams did not even really know where it was, except that it was far north, near the Canadian border, and it was very cold.
   He wandered sleepily, dragging his full duffle bag, toward an empty wooden bench where he would sit until the bus began to board. Even at this late hour, the station was filled with a small crowd of people milling around, looking for seats, waiting in line for tickets, scurrying to the restroom for a last-minute visit.
   The lobby was a vaudeville of characters. A heavy black woman held a child, perhaps a bit over a year, drooling, asleep on her shoulder as she paced back and forth before the frosted window panes of the station. Two benches down from where Adams sat, a 20’ish couple, dressed in leather and chains, with high leather boots, tongue-wrestled each other furiously while pawing at each other’s shoulders.
An elderly Jewish couple limped to the end of the ticket line, he with a cane in one hand, his wife’s arm in the other, kippah perched atop his crown, his mid-chest beard severely silver-specked. A single large suitcase was nestled in the grip of a foldable, two-wheel carrier they pushed before them. Adams shook his head.
    In addition to the duffle bag with his clothes and personal items, Adams carried a small backpack containing several books. He thought they might engage him during the long bus ride to Minot. Two novels and five or six slim volumes of poetry that had been sitting on his kitchen table, waiting to be read. But there were no medical journals, no medical texts. Adams had stopped reading those the day he retired. That was nearly two years ago.
   At nearly 11:30 a voice boomed overhead. “The 11:45 bus for Little Rock will begin boarding at Gate 3 in five minutes. Five minutes.” Adams began to gather his two bags, thinking of moving early to the Gate area, but already he was preceded by a horde of other waiting passengers. His hopes of getting a choice seat were dashed, not that it really mattered. It was not long before the next announcement, “The bus for Little Rock is now boarding at Gate 3; all passengers, please prepare to board now.”
   Adams moved to the end of the forming line. It was already long enough to suggest that the bus would be nearly full. As the line began to snake forward, Adams went through the automatic glass door and into the cold Memphis night air. His breath was immediately visible. It occurred to him, as he handed his bag to the driver for storage, that this temperature was probably balmy compared to the weather in Minot. He climbed the steps and began working his way down the aisle, past the portly bodies lifting small bags into the overhead storage. About two-thirds of the way toward the back, he angled into an empty seat, and positioned himself next to the window, settling in to continue his people-watching as others wound their way down the aisle.
   Adams was not in the mood for company, and he hoped that he might get lucky, like a gambler at the roulette wheel, and have the seat beside his remain free. He was not usually in the mood for company most days lately, but especially on a long bus ride.
   Surprisingly, Adams seemed to be in luck, as seats around him filled, leaving the one next to him untouched. He glanced at his watch. The bus was due to depart in two minutes. “Bingo,” he thought. He would be able to stretch out, encroaching into the neighboring seat, and enjoy his solitude.
   The driver climbed aboard the bus, which was already running and warm inside, and took his seat behind the wheel. The door hissed, and slammed shut, and Adams waited to hear the gears shift into reverse. Just as he was getting comfortable, the bus door hissed again, hissed open. And a young woman stumbled laughing up the stairs, exclaiming “thank you” to the driver in a voice loud enough to be heard back where Adams was sitting. She weaved her way down the aisle, scanning for a seat, and she stopped by the seat next to him.
   “Is this seat taken?”
   “No. You are welcome to it,” he lied.
   “Thank you.” And she unloaded one bag on the floor in front of the seat. Stretching on her tiptoes, she lifted the other into the overhead bin. Then she took off an enormous down coat, a coat fit for an Inuit, and stuffed it on top of the bag in front of her seat. At last, she pirouetted into her seat, turned her head to Adams, and said,     “Hi. I’m Penny.”

 
II
   The call had come Thursday night, two days before, at a quarter past one. Adams roused himself from a good dream, and sleepily answered the phone. It was his brother, Bruce, who lived in Ohio.
   “Jack, I’ve got some terrible news.”
   “Oh, no,” Adams said, waking some. “What is it?”
   “It’s Charlotte. No, not Charlotte, but Marie.” Charlotte was their sister in Minot; Marie was her 20-year old daughter.
   “What’s happened?”
   “Marie was in a car accident. She and her boyfriend apparently were hit head-on by a drunk driver…”
   Adams felt suddenly nauseated. “So, what happened? Is she all right?”
   “No… She was killed. They said she died instantly.”
   “Oh my god. You gotta be fucking kidding me!”
   “No.” Adams scarcely breathed. “I’m afraid not.”
   By now Adams was sitting on the side of his bed, the cordless phone pressed tight against his ear.
   “No way! This can’t be true.”
   Bruce said, “Yeah. It is true.”
   “Oh my god! What are we gonna do?”
   “Charlotte says they are having the funeral Tuesday morning. There won’t be a viewing.”
   “OK. OK,” Adams said, trying to gather his wits. “I guess I need to make some plans pretty quick. Thanks for calling.” And then, almost as an afterthought, “How is Charlotte.”
   “She’s pretty messed up.”
   “Yeah. I guess so.”
   Adams and Charlotte hadn’t been close since they were kids. And especially after she got married in her first year in college, he felt her drift farther and farther away. Her marriage had lasted a year, maybe two—Adams couldn’t remember. But she was left alone, fortunately with no kids, but with tuition and living expenses, and few solutions for financing her continued education.
   Charlotte had always been the resourceful one of the three siblings. After the divorce, she began to explore ways to continue school, and she soon discovered the opportunities offered by the different branches of the Armed Forces. She explored tuition reimbursement through the Navy and the Army, finally settling on the Air Force program. Since she would graduate with a degree in nursing, she could receive a year of tuition and a living stipend in exchange for two years of service after graduation. She jumped at the opportunity, signing on for two years. Her new military lifestyle did nothing to breach the ever-growing distance between her and Adams.
   After graduation and four years of practicing nursing in military base hospitals and clinics, Charlotte went back to school, again promising more time to the Air Force. And there came a second husband and then two children. Marie was the younger.
   Adams’ sister had become a career military person. They saw each other rarely, at a wedding or a funeral, but seldom spoke, and when they did an argument almost always ensued. She was querulous, and she was always right. Anyone who thought differently from her was simply wrong. It became easier just not to talk to her at all.
Charlotte and Adams had not seen each other in over ten years, and he had not seen Marie since she was four or five years old. The extent of communication between the two was a yearly electronic birthday card and a mass-mailed Christmas letter.
   Adams was dreading the meeting in two days. Despite his dread, there’d only been a moment’s hesitation in his decision to go. Nothing could possibly be worse than losing a child; even his sister should not have to endure that. The bus trip was over 30 hours, with transfers in Little Rock, Kansas City, and Minneapolis. Adams would have plenty of time to prepare for the reunion.

 
III
   Penny. He looked at her wide blue eyes and bubbly smile. How could she be in such a good mood, in a dark Greyhound bus, near midnight, on a dismally cold night in Memphis? Penny. Adams’ mind began playing word games.
   A penny for your thoughts.
   Would you care to swap seats for a little change?
   Your coat looks warm as toast, to coin a phrase.
   Adams did not utter any of these, but said simply, “Hi, Penny,” and reached for his backpack to retrieve a book of poetry. The bus coughed, then jerked into reverse, before moving into gear and heading toward the entrance to I-40.
   “Where are you headed?” Penny asked in her singsong voice.
   “Minot.”
   “Mine what?” she frowned.
   “Minot. North Dakota.”
   “Oh, wow!” she exclaimed. “I never heard of it before.”
   “Me either. Hardly.”
   “So… What’s in Minot?”
   Adams feared he might not be reading much poetry. “Well, a huge Air Force base mainly.”
   “Why there?” she asked, her eyes shining interest.
   “I don’t know. I suppose because it is so far away from everything else. That way the Russians would probably not think to bomb it while they nuked away New York and Washington.”
   “Why would they do that?” she asked, a hint of anxious wonderment on her face.
   Adams tested her. “Did you ever hear of the cold war?”
   “Yeah.” She glanced down at her hands. “Sort of.”
   “Well, they flew bombers from Minot that were in the air 24 hours a day, every day. They carried nuclear bombs. And there were nuclear missiles at Minot, too. All ready to nuke Russian cities if they tried to nuke us first.”
   “That’s pretty sick,” she glanced at Adams, twisting her mouth.
   “Yeah. It sure is.”
   After a short silence, Penny spoke again. “So, are you in the Air Force or something?”
   Adams mused about his notion of teens and young adults. Weren’t they supposed to be sporting iPods in their shirt pockets, with earbuds blocking out the rest of the world? He wondered where Penny’s iPod was.
   “No, I am not in the Air Force.”
   “So why are you going to Minot?”
   Adams sighed. “My sister lives there.”
   “Oh, that’s cool! So you’re going to visit your sister!” Penny exclaimed with excitement.
   “Yeah. Cool,” Adams muttered.
   The bus was easing onto the highway’s entrance ramp, and soon began the crossing over the Mississippi River bridge. The lights in the bus dimmed, and a few overhead reading lights brightened down the aisle. Penny leaned forward and reached into the pocket of her oversized coat, retrieving a granola energy bar. She began to unwrap it, peeling the wrapper down to the bar’s waist. She turned to Adams.
   “You want half?”
   “Uhm… No, thanks. But, thanks. Really.”
   “So… What’s your name?”
   “Adams. Jack Adams.”
   “May I call you Jack, Mr. Adams?”
   Adams rolled his eyes. “Sure.”
   “So… do you have any plans with your sister and her family?”
   Adams sighed again, more noticeably this time. “No, not really.” He paused. And without knowing exactly why, he added, “I’m going to a funeral.”
   “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. Who is it?”
   “My niece. She was killed in a car accident the night before last.”
   “Oh, God! How old is she… I mean, was she?”
   “Twenty.”
   “Oh, shit. Same age as me.”
   Adams added, “Too damn young to die!”
   Penny removed her knit stocking cap, freeing a tangle of frizzy, dishwater blonde hair. He could hear the crackle of static electricity as she removed the cap. She was cute, kind of. Adams wondered what her story was, but he was not about to ask.
   Penny began to munch frugal bites of her granola bar, slowly and deliberately enjoying each chew. Adams could see her pleasure at the taste of each morsel of peanut, oat flake, or raisin in the half-smile of her moving cheeks and lips. This endearingly annoying young girl could be his daughter, or even grand-daughter. She was that age.
   Adams again began to think of settling in, perhaps turn on his reading light and absorb a bit of poetry before dozing off.
   “So… What was your niece like?”
   Adams was startled back into the moment, annoyed again. “I don’t know,” he replied, honestly.
   Penny was silent for a few seconds, taking in Adams response. “What do you mean, Jack?”
   Adams suppressed a barely audible moan. “Well… OK. If you must know, I haven’t seen Marie since she was about five years old. I haven’t seen my sister in over ten years.”
   “Damn,” Penny muttered. They were silent. “Why not?”
   “It’s a long story.”
   “We have a long ride ahead of us,” she replied with anticipation.
   “Yeah, well… It’s kind of hard to talk about.”
   “OK,” Penny replied. Disappointment dripped like thick molasses in her voice.
   Adams felt bad. He felt as though he had cut her off, when she was only trying to be interested and conversant. To redeem himself, he asked, “So, where are you going?”
   “Minneapolis.”
   “And what’s in Minneapolis for you?”
   “My aunt lives there. I am going there to spend a week or so with her. My mother’s sister.”
   “Well, that’s nice. I hear Minneapolis is nice. Even though it is cold.” As an afterthought, “Although I don’t think it’s as cold as Minot.”
   “I don’t know. I’ve never been there before.”
   Adams was curious, but decided not to ask any more questions.
   They were quiet. Eventually, he could see the city lights of Little Rock in the dark sky ahead, and soon they were pulling into the Greyhound station. The bus wheezed to a stop at one of the gates. The bus lights brightened, and sleepy-eyed passengers began moving and gathering their carry-on belongings. The bus door hissed, folding open like a Japanese fan. Adams fished out his backpack from where it was half-stuffed under the seat in front of him, and Penny stood to retrieve her bag from the overhead bin.
   Just then, Adams realized that they would be boarding together the next bus to Kansas City, and then the one after to Minneapolis. He smiled slightly to himself.

 
IV
   To say that Adams’ retirement was bittersweet would be half true. The truth is that his retirement was just bitter. He had practiced Emergency Medicine in the large Emergency Room of one of the urban medical center hospitals in Memphis for over thirty years. It had been his life, a life he loved more than he would ever have believed possible. Maybe he loved it too much. Had his long hours, and his ineptitude at leaving work at work had perhaps contributed to the breakup of his twenty-year marriage, now more than ten years past?
   Adams had married during his residency in Cleveland, Ohio. He was happy. He thought he was happy nearly to the end, when he learned just how unhappy his wife was. Still, the knock at his door at 6 a.m. startled him, but not so much as when he saw standing on his porch the court officer with the envelop in his hand. His wife was away visiting her sister at the time, and he had no idea why a county clerk officer would be knocking at this hour. He unlocked and opened the front door of his house.
   “Jack Adams?”
   “Yes, sir?”
   “I have papers for you. You will need to sign here.”
   Adams’ stomach was like a pouch full of acid twisting on itself. He shakily signed the paper. And that was the beginning of the end. When Barb returned, she moved right away into a furnished apartment she had already temporarily rented, and they did not speak. Adams was left in a cavernous house that had already been too large for the two of them, and now there was only him.
   Adams was not much of a fighter. “Irreconcilable differences” was fine with him. And Barb got the house, half of their joint savings, half the value of their two cars, and half of his entire pension. And Adams was so heartsick, he really didn’t care. He soon moved into a small, two-bedroom apartment near downtown to try and rebuild his life. It was medicine that saved his life. After that, his vocation continued to be his source of fulfillment and his life-saver—at least until his diagnosis.
   That was just four years ago. It started with a slight tremor in his hands. Only slight, and not always present. But as it grew more frequent, he mentioned it to his internist. His physician, whom he had known for years, Allen—they were friends—did a basic neurologic exam: finger to nose, hands outstretched with eyes open, then closed, reaching for and holding objects between fingers, handwriting sample… and more.
   At the conclusion, Allen said, seriously, “I don’t know, Jack. There is something there. Definitely a tremor. It’s partly an intention tremor, but it seems slightly present at rest as well. It could be any of a number of things, as you know. I am going to refer you to a neurologist.”
   The neurologist wasted no time in arriving at a diagnosis: Stage I Parkinson’s.
   At first, for the first year, Adams was lucky. The tremor was not debilitating, sometimes barely noticeable, and there were no other symptoms. But with time the tremor became more pronounced, and soon Adams began having difficulties doing his work in the Emergency Room.
   Procedures, in particular, were a problem. Placing central lines—large catheters into veins in the neck, groin, or beneath the collar bone—all essential to the work of an Emergency Medicine physician, was a challenge. At times, intubating—placing a breathing tube into a patient’s windpipe—was the same sort of challenge. Adams would often have to ask the assistance of one of his colleagues.
   After a time, Adams realized that he could not safely go on with his practice, and began to significantly reduce his clinical responsibilities, instead emphasizing more his teaching role. Adams knew that his disease would eventually progress, either slowly or rapidly, finally incapacitating him. And that is what led to his decision to retire early, two years ago. If he only had a few years of “quality” life remaining before the Parkinson’s took over, he wanted to be sure that he enjoyed that time as much as possible.
   Adams was eligible for disability, which paid 60% of his former salary. With his more humble lifestyle of apartment living, money was not an issue. There were no women to devour his paycheck, and he lived his life simply. He spent days reading and writing, reading good fiction and poetry, and writing some poetry on the side. He also cultivated a taste for fine, single malt Scotch, which he enjoyed after dinner every evening. To some it would seem a lonely life, but Adams was content. He certainly missed sex, but he was content.

 
V
   Penny and Adams shouldered their way into the line of disembarking passengers. Adams had only his small backpack, which he loosely slung over his shoulder. Penny, on the other hand, had put on her bulky coat and stocking cap, and carried similar sized bags in each hand. As they climbed down the steps of the bus, Adams said, “Here, let me carry one of those,” and Penny gladly handed over one of the bags. Together they moved to one of the wooden benches, glancing at the bulb-lit sign silently announcing departure times for the few remaining late-night buses. It was 3 a.m. The Kansas City bus departed at 3:15.
   Sitting next to Adams, Penny pulled another energy bar from her coat pocket. Again she peeled the wrapper halfway, and without speaking held it out to him. Adams felt a slight gurgle of hunger in his stomach, and said “Thanks.” Penny smiled and broke the exposed half of the bar off, and handed it to Adams. He admired her foresight in thinking of food, and admonished himself for not thinking of the same for himself.
   Adams rose from the bench to get a coffee from the vending machine. “Would you like a coffee?” he asked Penny.
   “Sure,” she smiled.
   “Cream and sugar?”
   “Naw. Straight up,” she replied. “Black as night.”
   “My kind of girl,” Adams smiled, and moved toward the machine. He returned with two steaming cups, hot to his fingers, and handed one to Penny.
   “Thanks.”
   A minute passed as they blew over the hot surface of their bitter coffees, and sipped carefully. A blistered palate was not something Adams was eager to endure for the rest of the trip.
   “So… Jack… What was it between you and your sister?”
 He sighed once again, more reflectively this time. “I don’t know, Penny. It just happened. The years passed, and we became so different that we didn’t even like each other. In fact, it got so bad, we couldn’t stand each other. I don’t know. It doesn’t make me feel good. It makes me feel sad. And a little guilty. We both dealt with it the same way. We stopped talking.”
   Just then, the overhead speaker: “The bus to Kansas City is now boarding at Gate 5. Gate 5 for Kansas City.” Adams was partly relieved by the interruption. He and Penny gathered their bags, Adams again carrying one of Penny’s. As they moved toward the glass door, Penny asked, eyes opened even wider than usual, “Jack? Is it OK if I sit next to you again?”
   “Absolutely.”
   They retraced the steps they had taken from the Memphis bus, only in reverse, working their way toward the back, bags in tow. This bus was far less filled than the earlier one. Adams would ordinarily have been glad, for he would have been assured a seat by himself. Instead, he was glad to have Penny sitting next to him. Together they settled into a seat in almost the same location as on the previous bus.
   “Would you like the window seat this time?” Adams politely asked her.
   “No, thanks. I have a bit of agoraphobia. I hate feeling closed in. I need the aisle seat.”
   Perfect, thought Adams, as he vastly preferred the window seat and its view. It was like a re-run. He quickly tossed his backpack in front of his seat, and Penny laboriously took off her enormous coat. Again she tossed one bag in front of her seat and then began to pack the down coat in on top. Then she began the contortions in preparation for the tip-toe stretch to the upper bin for the second bag.
   Adams stood up. “Here. Let me get that for you.”
   Penny grinned. “Thank you!” Adams returned to his seat, and Penny turned and plopped ungracefully into hers, a smile still spanning across her still fresh face. Adams watched her, and shook his head slightly with a faint smile of his own.
   The bus door wheezed closed, and the gears began to grate into reverse. It was not long before they were on the highway again, headed north, and not long before Penny spoke again.
   “So… you were saying?”
   “I was? What was I saying?”
   “About you and your sister. You both stopped talking. And you felt sad. And guilty. Why did you feel guilty?”
    Adams thought a minute. “Wow. You ask tough questions, don’t you?” He paused, reflecting. “I don’t know. I guess you shouldn’t just stop talking to your sister, you know. No matter what. Although, she stopped too.” His comment felt empty to him, as though he were trying to redirect the cause of his guilty feelings.
   “No. She really did stop. But it was me who stopped my talking. So, it is my fault. At least half my fault.”
   Penny was half turned in her seat, looking directly into Adams’ eyes. He felt a little uncomfortable. It was as though she were waiting for him to continue.
   “I don’t really have anything more to say about it.”
   Penny wouldn’t give up. “Do you ever regret not knowing your niece?”
   “If she was anything like you, then yes, I regret it.”
   He thought he could see Penny blush, but she was smiling. Then her face turned serious. “If I were your niece, I would really be sorry that I’d never gotten to know you.”
   Wow, he thought. The flattery and the guilt he felt were formidable. Adams did not say anything. He didn’t know what to say.
   They rode for a surprising ten minutes of silence. Penny remained half-turned in her seat, her gaze distant but not wavering. He cut his glance to the side so as to see her without being caught. She had a musing look, as if contemplating something serious and complicated. Finally, she spoke again.
   “So… how will it be seeing your sister after all this time?”
   Would she never stop taking him by surprise?
   “I have no idea. Terrible. I will be awkward. And she will be angry, and hateful. That’s how she always was. And now she has a damn good reason to be.”
   “Terrible? Yeah, it probably will be if you go into it thinking that way,” she said.
   Oh, Jesus… now she is going to lecture me? Adams didn’t say anything.  It was nearly 5 a.m., and soon the sky in the east, to the right, would be pinkening. This leg of the trip was a little over fifteen hours, with stops in Harrison, Arkansas, and Springfield, Missouri. But no bus transfers until Kansas City.
   “Are you tired?” he asked the girl. His own eyes were starting to sting. After all, they’d practically pulled an all-nighter.
   “Sort of,” she replied. “Just a little.”
   “Maybe we should get a little shut-eye before it gets light.”
   “Okay. You don’t seem like you want to talk anymore anyway. At least right now.” She turned back in her seat, and eased the seatback into a semi-reclined position. Once again she removed her knit stocking cap, with its electric crackle. Adams watched as she settled back, closing her eyes. He wasn’t so lucky. He was sleepy, but not enough to doze off at that moment. He watched his new friend, who seemed to fall immediately into dreams. He watched as her mouth gradually drooped ungracefully open, and she began quietly mouth-breathing. He watched her breathe as the eastern sky turned pink.

 
VI
   It was about 7:30 when the bus pulled into the small, single-gate station in Harrison. It pulled in and stopped without turning off the engine. After five minutes, and no departures, no new passengers, the bus ground into gear again and headed back onto the highway. Penny had not stirred. It would be an hour and a half before they arrived in Springfield, Missouri, their next stop. Adams pulled the poetry volume out of his backpack again, and began to read.
   Penny continued sleeping, while Adams finished the book of poems. Springfield was a short distance off the interstate, and it was a little after nine when they pulled into the station. The driver announced that this would be a fifteen minute stop, and if anyone wanted to exit and stretch their legs, it would be fine.
   Adams’ stomach was audibly growling now, and he decided to see what could be bought for breakfast inside the terminal. He managed to step over Penny’s coat and bag, taking care not to jostle her knees as he crawled past her. He tried hard not to waken her, and was pleased that she did not budge; her eyelids did not even flutter.
Inside, Adams was surprised. Just past the rotating door was a short order grill. Possibilities were more numerous than he’d dared hope for. Pancakes, bacon and eggs, bagels and cream cheese. Adams asked the cook if he could make an egg, cheese and sausage sandwich on an English muffin. The cook replied, “Oh, yeah. Just like an Egg McMuffin. Of course I can.”
   “I’ll take two,” Adams said, “and two large coffees. Black.”
   “Yes, sir. Five minutes.” Adams wandered to the end of the line, and picked up a copy of the morning’s Springfield News. When the sandwiches were ready, he took the bag to the register at the end of the counter, paid, and returned to the bus. Penny was awake. “Good morning, sunshine,” he greeted.
   “Hi.” She took the sandwich from the bag he handed her. “Oh, thank you!” She beamed at him.
   “You missed the sunrise,” Adams told her. “It was actually quite pretty. The flat land gave us a plain view of the sun coming up from behind the horizon—no pun intended.”
   Penny giggled as she unwrapped her sandwich. “I was having some crazy dreams,” she said between mouthfuls.
   “Oh, really? What were they?”
   The motor of the bus turned over, and the last stragglers of passengers re-boarded the bus, along with a few newcomers.
   “I don’t really remember exactly, at least not a lot of details. There was a big bird, a big beautiful bird, like a swan, only bigger. And it had multi-colored feathers, like a peacock. It was really beautiful, and it was floating down this pretty, calm stream, with clear water that reflected the sunlight.
   “As it moved down the stream, I could see a huge whirlpool, or something, right in its path. It was like in a bathtub while it drains, only bigger. The bird was floating right toward it, but didn’t even notice. And then suddenly the bird was caught in the outskirts of the whirlpool, and it got whipped around, fast, in a circle. It looked back at me, and there was terror in its face. I wanted to help, but there was nothing I could do. And around and around, the water whipped the bird around in smaller and smaller and faster circles until all at once, at the very center, the bird got sucked under.”
   “Wow. That’s pretty powerful. What do you make of it?”
   “It made me feel very sad, very sad that this beautiful bird died so terribly, looking at me for help. Only I couldn’t. And I felt guilty. I wanted to cry. In fact, I think I may have cried in my sleep.”
   “That’s pretty heavy. You should probably think about that one some more.”
   “Yeah.” Her smile faded into a distant look. She took another bite of her sandwich, and a sip of her coffee, looking blankly ahead. Adams was quiet. He did not say anything, wouldn’t have known what to say if he had wanted to. He also took another bite of his sandwich, pleased that it actually tasted better than an Egg McMuffin.
   They rode in silence for ten more minutes, until their sandwiches were finished, and their coffees nearly so. Adams was surprised that he found himself wanting conversation, more conversation. So he took the risk and struck it up.
   “Don’t you have an iPod? I thought everyone your age had an iPod, and that their ears are never separated from their earbuds.”
   “I have an iPod, but I left it at home.” As an afterthought, she added, “On purpose.”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
   “Somehow it didn’t seem like this was the right kind of trip for iPod music.”
   “Why’s that?”
   Penny shrugged, “I don’t know. It just didn’t.”
   Adams felt he was treading on sensitive ground, and changed the subject to one more comfortable to him. “Do you like poetry?”
   She said, “Oh, yeah. I am not too fond of some of the old fashioned rhymey stuff like they mostly teach you in school. But I like some of the modern poets that I have read.”
   “Oh, really?” Adams perked up. “Who have you read? What do you like?”
   “I have read e.e. cummings. I like some of his stuff. Kind of weird, but pretty fun. And someone told me I should read William Carlos Williams, that he was the father of modern poetry. I liked everything of his I read, like ‘The Red Wheelbarrow.’ Pretty amazing—so much said with so few words. Someone else told me to read Sylvia Plath. I did, and she blew me away, but some of her poems were too scary and too depressing.”
   It was Adams who was blown away. He would never have guessed that this 20-year old girl, woman, would know these poets. He was impressed. “Would you like to read some of what I brought with me?”
   “Oh, yes! I really would!” Her exuberant smile had magically reappeared. Adams retrieved from his backpack the book he had just finished. It was a volume of poems by his favorite poet. He handed it to Penny, and said, “Try this. He may be a little different from what you’ve read before, but I think you will like him. He is not overly complicated, and his images are like magic. He was the poet laureate for the United States for two consecutive terms back in the mid-90’s. If he is not to your liking, that’s OK; I won’t be offended.”
   She eagerly took the paperback from him. “Thanks.” Adams reached back into his backpack and took out another thin paperback—a short novel recommended by several of Adams’ friends. He had chosen that as one of his novels for this trip. Kansas City was about three hours’ reading time away, with a few short stops along the route, but no transfers. Adams and Penny both settled into their reading.
   The ride was pretty boring, without the conversation, but the reading was good. Adams was hooked by his novel with the first page. Penny seemed equally engrossed, slowly and deliberately reading each poem, and then rereading. A couple of times, during moments when Adams rested his eyes and adjusted his reading glasses, he noticed her turning the pages back to an earlier poem, already read. He was pleased.
   Adams had purchased two bottles of water in Springfield, and he reached into his backpack and fished them both out. He opened one, and handed it to Penny. And then he opened the other for himself. Penny took the bottle without lifting her eyes from the page.
   The traffic was starting to get heavier. They were getting close to Kansas City. They would have to transfer to another bus there, and maybe have time to grab a bite of lunch.
   Penny gently closed the book of poems, and let out a long, slow sigh. Adams wasn’t sure what the sigh meant. He turned to her and asked, “So?”
   “He is unbelievable! He creates images with words that are absolutely alive, perfect, with such detail. Images of things that are common, everyday things. But in his hands, it is like magic. They become something much more than words, so much more than everyday things. They become sad so I want to cry. Or funny, so I want to laugh out loud. Or just mystifying. They leave me feeling like I just left a wonderful church service. Like God just winked at me, or something.”
   Adams felt something inside his chest. She had just described how the poems made him feel as well, and he was thrilled that she had enjoyed them so much. He also felt, oddly, proud of her.
   He was jarred back to the noonday winter sun of Kansas City by the hiss of the bus pulling into the station, a station far bigger than any of the previous ones. Once again, they gathered their belongings and headed up the aisle. Inside, the terminal was crowded and dingy, but right next door and adjoining, there was a small food mart, like the ones in malls, and an open area with tables. A Burger King and a Subway were the first to grab their attention. Adams looked at Penny and asked, “Care for a Subway, mademoiselle?”
   “Mais oui, merci.”
   So… she could speak French too, even if only a little?

 
VII
   After Adams and Penny finished their Subways and cokes, it was time to find their next bus. Adams scanned the notification screen, and found the bus bound for Minneapolis. They walked to the gate, and the waiting passengers were more numerous than at the last station. Together, Adams and Penny took a seat on a bench near the door, and when the boarding announcement came, they quickly took a position near the front of the line. Neither wanted to take a chance on not sitting together.
   The sliding glass door opened, an attendant checked their tickets, and another took their checked bags to load into the belly of the bus. Adams and Penny took their carry-on bags and worked their way toward the back of the bus, and claimed squatters’ rights in nearly the same spot as in the previous two buses. And then the same ritual of placing bags into the overhead bin and on the floor, and they took their seats. Soon the new bus was on the road again. This leg was a little over eight hours, with one stop in Des Moines. It would be long after dark before they arrived in Minneapolis.
   Adams started the conversation this time. “Penny, what are you going to do in Minneapolis?” He realized that he knew next to nothing about her, nor her immediate plans, though he did realize that her massive coat prepared her well for the cold of Minnesota’s February.
   “I don’t know,” she replied, speaking into her hand as much as to Adams. “I guess I’ll be doing whatever Aunt Elizabeth has planned pretty much.”
   “How well do you know your Aunt Elizabeth?” Adams ventured.
   “Not all that well. She was kind of the black sheep in my mom’s family. She never married. She works with investments, or something. Never married, but lots of boyfriends over the years, from what I hear. She is free-spirited.
   “I only see her every couple of years when the family gets together for the holidays or something, not very often at all. She seems pretty cool.”
   “Sounds like you might enjoy your time with her,” Adams offered.
   “Yeah.” Penny did not sound too convincing, but Adams let it go.
   Penny was silent for a long while. Adams left her to her thoughts, and plucked the second novel from his backpack, since he’d finished his first before they arrived in Kansas City. Penny’s energy was changed. She was immersed in thought. Even though Adams didn’t really know her, he sensed something was different.
   “A penny for your thoughts,” he tried, half smiling.
   Penny half-smiled in return; she caught the pun, but she said only, “Nothing. I’m not really thinking anything.” Penny may have fallen for the pun, but Adams did not fall for her reply. He wondered what she was thinking, why her exuberance had become so serious. But once again, he let it go.
   “Would you like to try this?” He offered the first, shorter novel to her. Penny said, “Sure,” and accepted the paperback from him. And they both sank into their respective books. They rode reading in silence for an hour, and then Penny struggled from her seat, saying she needed to pee, and she began working her way down the aisle to the back of the bus.
   Adams had a fleeting thought about his own hygiene at the moment. He was used to a daily morning shower, more to help wake up than for personal cleanliness. But somehow eighteen hours riding a bus, passing in and out of dirty bus terminals, made him feel grimy. He wished the bus had a shower.
   Penny returned and climbed in over the coat and bag in front of her seat. The window next to Adams’ cheek was cold, like ice, and its bottom was made translucent by a narrow band of frost. The landscape beyond the window was nearly flat, with the remnants of summer cornfields, stalks now leafless; furrows between the rows were dark earth pocked with patches of snow. The sky was bullet gray.
   They rode another hour, reading in silence. And Adams asked, “Penny, are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m OK.” Adams was not convinced.
   “I’m just reading.”
   Adams returned to his book, but the 24 previous sleepless hours caught up to him, and he began to drift, soon fully dozing despite his efforts to keep reading. He continued to doze fitfully, losing his place in the book, for an hour.
    “Jack? Jack, are you awake?” Adams found himself back on the bus sitting next to Penny, and he smiled. “I am now,” he answered.
   “Jack…” She stared at her open hands in her lap. “Jack, I am pregnant.”
   Adams sat upright, suddenly fully awake, and his book slipped to the floor in front of his seat. “What? Uhm, really? I mean, uhm… Congratulations. Right?”
   Penny was half-turned in her seat again, looking straight into his eyes. Adams was suddenly speechless, though he felt a pressure to say something more. Penny spoke first. “No. No congratulations. It’s not good.”
   “Oh,” he said, sounding dense. “Do you want to talk about it?”
   “I don’t know,” she hesitated. “I feel so stupid.”
   Adams waited. Penny continued, “I feel so stupid. I have had only one serious boyfriend. We were together, dating, for two years…”
   Adams waited.
   “I thought we would be together forever. Probably get married, you know? We just couldn’t, not right now. And when we started, you know, having sex… making love… we were very careful to time it around my periods, so this wouldn’t happen. He didn’t like condoms. I guess our timing wasn’t all that great, was it.”
   Adams felt as out of place as a circus clown at a Catholic mass. He wasn’t sure what to say at all. So he remained quiet.
   “When he found out I was pregnant, he was really upset. Angry. He said he didn’t want it. The baby. I was very confused, and I told him I didn’t know what to do. He told me I should figure it out, and then I didn’t hear from him for three days. When he finally called, he was still angry, and he asked me what I’d decided. I didn’t know what he meant, and I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t even told my mom yet. He told me to figure it out. That was the last time I heard from him, over a week ago.”
Now it was Adams turn to twist in his seat. He looked Penny directly in the eyes, and asked, “Did you tell your mom?”
   “Yeah. She was really pissed. She said that I had to get an abortion, but she didn’t want me to do it in Memphis. So she was the one to arrange my trip to see Aunt Elizabeth. My aunt knows lots of people, and one of her friends works at this clinic. That’s why I am going to Minneapolis.”
   Adams kept looking her in the eyes. He felt completely out of his element. He was used to difficult conversations from his years in the Emergency Room. He had mastered the art of being both factual and compassionate, and he’d learned the art of listening. But this was different. Here was this young woman he’d known not even 24 hours, and she was telling him a story he’d never dreamed hearing—her story.
   Following his instincts, he asked her, “How do you feel about all of this.”
    “I am really pissed at my so-called boyfriend, for starters. At my mom, too. She never really talked to me about it. She really didn’t give me any choice, not that I would have chosen different.”
   Adams pressed a bit more, gently. “How do you feel about the abortion?”
Penny replied quickly, “Scared.”
   Adams waited, then asked, “Scared of what?”
   Penny wavered. “Scared of… Will it hurt?”
   And then, quickly, “No. That’s not what scares me. I am scared of how I am going to feel afterward.”
   Adams continued gazing into her royal blue, serious eyes. “What do you mean, Penny?”
   “I don’t know,” she continued. “I mean… How will I feel when it’s gone, and it was my decision?”
   For a fleeting moment, Adams wished he’d trained in psychiatry instead of Emergency Medicine. But he did at least know that asking open questions was usually a good thing, a helpful thing.
   “How do you think you will feel, Penny?”
   “I’m not sure.” And they fell again into silence. Adams was not sleepy any more. He was alert, and thinking deeply.
   They rode in silence for what seemed like a long while, both apparently in deep thought. From the little Penny had shared with him, Adams wasn’t sure if this was all her choice. He wasn’t even sure if she knew well enough what her choice would be, if it were hers to make. It sounded more like this was a choice her mother and her boyfriend had made for her. And he felt bad for her to be in such a lonely position, at the beck and call of others. He wanted to be helpful, but he didn’t know how.
   “Penny, I just don’t know what to say. I have so many thoughts spinning around in my head, but no words for them. I feel so bad for you, and I’d like to be helpful. How can I help?”
   “You can’t help, Jack. No one can. I am in this all alone.”
   Adams turned back in his seat, facing forward again. He glanced out at the still barely rolling farm fields and the gray sky. It was nearly 4:30, and it was already starting to get dark. He caught sight of a lighted sign announcing 20 miles to Des Moines. He was suddenly aware that he was hungry again, and he wondered what he might be able to find to eat in the station in Des Moines. It would only be a 15-minute stop, so he wouldn’t have long to decide, as if there would be much to decide upon any way.
   Without looking, Adams could feel Penny staring straight ahead at the back of the seat in front of her. “Penny,” he looked at her, “are you OK?”
   “Yeah…” Then, “No.”
   “I am sorry. I’m sorry for you.”
    “Don’t be. It’s my fault. I was so stupid.”
   They fell back into silence for the rest of the way into Des Moines. When they arrived, Adams said, “Hey, I am going to see what they have to eat. Want to join me and stretch your legs?”
   “No. I think I’ll stay here.”
   Disappointed, and concerned, Adams stepped over Penny and her luggage, and made his way inside the terminal. It looked a bit like the station in Kansas City, and a bit like the one in Springfield. There were not many people, but there was a grill. Adams ordered two hamburgers, two fries, and fixed two cups of coke from the fountain. After paying, he returned to the bus and wound his way back to his seat, handing Penny her bag and cup, while again climbing over her to his seat. Before they spoke, the bus was in reverse, and then headed back to the highway. In another four hours they would be in Minneapolis.
   Adams and Penny both chewed their burgers and fries in silence. Adams was sipping on the straw of his coke when he heard Penny. “Thanks.”
   “You’re welcome,” he answered.
   When they’d finished, they both wiped their fingers on their napkins and stuffed them along with the wrappers into one of the two sacks, and that sack into the second, which Adams pushed between his seat and the wall of the bus.
   The bus was soon dark, with the “ambient lighting” only, and a few overhead reading lights dotting the ceiling along the two rows of seats. Adams leaned a bit toward Penny’s seat. “Penny, may I ask you a question?”
   “Sure. I guess.”
   “I was wondering how you feel about this abortion. I mean, is this something you want? Or is it something your mom wants?”
   She was thoughtful for a moment, and then she answered, “Well, my mom wants it for sure.” A pause, and then, “I am not sure what I want.”
   “Penny, I am no expert. I am not even a father, no kids, and if I did have kids they would probably be boys, so I still wouldn’t be much of an expert. But there is one thing I know, I think I know, that is true in many kinds of situations.”
   “What’s that, Jack?” Penny asked, now really interested.
   “I think it is really important that every person faced with a difficult choice follow the path that they feel right. Not the path that somebody else feels is right, but that they, themselves, truly believe is the right choice.
    “If you feel that the abortion is the right thing for you, then don’t doubt yourself. If you think it is not the right thing for you, then don’t let someone else make your decision for you.
   “Either way, you have the strength within you to figure out what is right. And then you have the strength to make the choice work for you, even if it is a challenge.”
   She didn’t say anything further.

 
VIII
   The bus arrived at the terminal in downtown Minneapolis a little past 9. The lights of the bus came on, and people began foraging for their belongings. Adams and Penny repeated their now familiar ritual. Penny put on her coat, and this time her cap as well, retrieving it from the large pocket. Adams helped her with the bag in the overhead bin, and they joined the others working their way to the front, Adams carrying his backpack and one of Penny’s bags.
   When they got inside, they wandered over to where their checked bags would be brought. Penny looked around, searching, a bit anxiously. In a few minutes the passengers’ bags were brought in on a large cart. Adams retrieved his duffle bag, and Penny her suitcase, and they stepped back from the rest of the small crowd. Penny looked around, then suddenly started waving. Near the exit of the terminal, also waving, was a middle-aged woman who looked nothing like Penny.
   Only then did Penny turn back to Adams. She threw her arms around him and hugged him more tightly than he ever remembered being hugged. When they finally separated, he saw tear tracks on Penny’s cheeks. She said, “Bye, Jack,” and turned abruptly and walked toward where her aunt was standing.
   Jack stood alone, and watched as her figure already seemed to grow smaller and distant. Halfway to her aunt, Penny suddenly turned and yelled loud enough for everyone to hear, “Jack! Jack! Good luck with your sister!”

 
IX
   Adams found the gate for the bus to Minot, which was leaving in 45 minutes. It was now habit: when the time came, he showed his ticket to the attendant, he dropped his duffle bag on a pile of luggage waiting to be loaded, and climbed the steps of the bus. Hardly anyone was aboard, and the line behind him had been short. Four uniformed youngsters and a few other stragglers. The bus would be almost empty. And, also by habit, Adams moved to the seat that would have been his and Penny’s.
Adams tossed his bag and coat on the aisle seat, and sat down, half sideways, in his window spot, sprawling into the adjacent seat. He pulled out his book as the bus started and began backing out of the gate. His overhead reading light on, he picked up where he’d left off--The Road. Cormack McCarthy.
   It was very different traveling alone. Adams had always thought that this was his preference, choosing whenever possible the seat with an empty one beside. And if this seat were occupied, he would choose not to speak, or to speak as little as possible. Now, he missed Penny beside him, and even though absorbed in his novel, he couldn’t help being distracted by thoughts of this vivacious, joyful, and very sad young woman. He wondered how she would be. He thought that she would be okay.
For the next eight hours, Adams dozed and read. Once he got up to go to the bathroom in the back of the bus and pee. Twice he opened a bottle of water to sip while he read. Time passed slowly, and he was wistful.
   Around 5:30, the eastern sky behind the bus began to brighten. It was still cloud-covered, and it looked cold. In another half-hour, they were pulling into the small Greyhound Station in Minot. Adams waited until the other passengers had finished gathering their belongings and had exited the bus. His intestines felt like someone had tied them in a knot, and his mouth was drier than he ever remembered.
   He put on his jacket, slung the backpack over his shoulder, took a deep breath, and headed to the door. He was not even sure what his sister looked like.